


Who for His Greed and Who for His Hunger?

by CateyedCrow



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Late at Night, M/M, Master & Servant, Post-Coital Cuddling, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 07:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateyedCrow/pseuds/CateyedCrow
Summary: A circumstance that's twice-over forbidden: the master of the house and his servant, a man and another man.But this is not lust, this is not love; this is something deeper than blood ties.





	Who for His Greed and Who for His Hunger?

**Author's Note:**

> A very old piece I thought I'd post here for posterity, record-keeping, or something.

Whose fault had it been, really? He was the master, and Riff was the servant, but whose fault had it been? Which glance had done it? Which ordinary touch had done it? What simple gesture had done it?

That had all passed in a breath and an instant, and what had it left in its wake?

A church clock chimed low in the distance. Three o'clock in the morning. The hour of ghosts, he thought lightly, amused. And Riff was, he thought, asleep.

So his slow, steady breathing would suggest. But still such a grip about Cain's waist. Demanding. 

Riff was ghost-like in the darkness: pale skin and paler hair, those white fingers that were stained blacker and blacker each time they touched him, Lord Cain and his filthy body, stained soul. But still he would touch. And he could touch.

And how he did touch.

Blame it on his study of medicine. Blame it on their familiarity. Blame it on Riff's permission to hold him this way, his hands pressed to Cain's back--the one thing forbidden to any other Cain brought into his bed: his back. 

What had done it? What did it matter? It was done by the time he was to help Cain prepare for bed. Never before had he undressed him with that intent (had it been there all along, hidden, latent?). Never before tossed onto the bed like that. Never before been pinned down, held, pressed into the bed (and he had been with more than a few difficult women in his life). 

Never had he been taken like that. 

No, he had expected to enjoy it. He knew it from the beginning. The kiss then: call that the start, the drawing together and the need. Cain had pulled at him before, tugged at him, plucked at him, pressed against him, clung to him, breathed the scent of his shirt to nigh intoxication, pressed a wounded hand to his mouth--but never a kiss. Until now. 

But what had begun that? Who had begun that?

Should the beginning matter? It had been, and now it had been done.

He let himself indulge, then, in the ghosts of ideas. In thoughts of the dark seats of carriages, riding home after a concert, after a play. No woman in tow these times. Cold nights, all of them, and very long rides back to the house. What would transpire? A kiss, perhaps. More than one. Long ones. Deep ones. Overtures, one might hope--and call them that, if they were returning from a concert. Why not? Gloved hands latching onto coat collars, and no one to see them, breath warm on one another's faces and foggy in the cold air.

Or better still, knocking a week's worth of letters to the floor for the sake of a moment, a clambering tangle on the desk. Riff's hand on his shoulder to start it, Cain's hand pressing it to accept. A turn, a glance, eyes to eyes. Mid-afternoon: no maids to bother them, no one calling, nothing to do but answer letters. Nothing of length between them, nothing of consequence--not yet. Another overture, perhaps. But still: the hands that tied the tie now untying it, unbuttoning the collar, for momentary pleasure. Before long, everything would have to be done up again.

Or summer mornings, early, only barely gold and rose. Long before anyone else would stir. Merry asleep. The maids not awake. The quiet of early morning and the quiet of a shared bed and white sheets. He would wake to soft touches, move towards them, smile and, half asleep, be taken again. Taken and claimed again and again and again. Then, satisfied, Riff could leave him then, draw the water for a bath, and wake him later: the faithful servant waking the master of the house. Nevermind the shape pressed into the bed beside that master of the house, left over from when he was no master, only a young man.

This was possession.

He felt Riff stir beside him, felt his grip tighten a little.

It was forbidden, it was forbidden twice over: the master of the house and his servant, and a man and another man.

No, more than that. This was not love. This was not lust. What bound them was more and deeper. Riff understood. Cain longed, desperately, for something more, deeper, and stronger than blood ties. To give one's body to another, that was stronger. Wasn't it? 

They needed one another. They had saved one another.

It was not love. It was more than love. It would never be love. It was darker than love.  
He sighed and heard Riff shift beside him.

But let no one know, tell no one. Who would hear of it? No one. Who would be hurt? No one. All the insubstantiality of a ghost. And if he had his way, as much unreality. 

There would be nothing untowards here. He would keep his reputation as the ladykiller. Riff would bow and smile and help him with his coat.

Though, he would need high collars for a week after this one night. He smiled to himself. And Riff would be the one to dress him. He would see what he'd done. He would see how he'd marked his master.

Cain would take the pain of it. It was a reminder. And he murmured a laugh to himself. 

Riff stirred again, this time waking. Or had he been awake all along? Dozing? Feigning? His grip tightened, yes, possessively, and he pressed against--what to call himself now, in this place, in this bed, with this man?

Warmly, Riff pressed a kiss behind his ear.

"Lord Cain," he whispered low against his master's--if the word was right--temple, "If you are yet awake, I see I have not yet done my duty to you."


End file.
